


Barking up the wrong tree

by Shadowmun



Category: The Witcher (TV)
Genre: F/M, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-09-28
Updated: 2020-09-28
Packaged: 2021-03-08 01:07:14
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,566
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26697226
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Shadowmun/pseuds/Shadowmun
Summary: In which Jaskier does just that: barking up the wrong tree. In several different ways.
Comments: 2
Kudos: 4





	Barking up the wrong tree

**Author's Note:**

> Hi everyone, this is my first story on archive, I am no native speaker and my use of commas is god-awful. If you find any mistakes, other than that, please let me know, I want to improve.  
> No betaread yet.  
> And because I was told (I couldn't believe, this is necessary, but... here we are: constructive critism wanted.

Jaskier sighed, as he looked around in the pathetic excuse for actual vegetation, Geralt misconceived as a good camping site. This early after the winter, the grass still mostly consisted of stringy browngrey stubbles and the shrubbery meant to keep the wind at bay did anything but.

  
Not for the first time, since they met again, he sighed: “I shouldn’t have come with you.” Geralt looked up from the few logs, he used to start a fire and grunted with a low rumble, which was probably witcher speak for “told you so”. And of course, he was right. This was the case annoyingly often, though Jaskier stubbornly refused to give in to this mostly grumbling voice of reason. It was too late for regrets now, anyways. They had passed the last hamlet two days ago and a decent bath, good beds and a tavern were out of reach for another four days. If he managed to stay out of trouble, a feat, Jaskier unwillingly needed to admit, he was mostly incapable off.

  
So he sat down on his bedroll and helped chopping off some leftover apples, meant to spice up the simple oatmeal, Geralt was cooking. When he finished, he wiped his fingers, grabbed the lute and played some simple cords, much to his companion’s irritation. Earlier on this journey, or in better traveling conditions, he might have started with the famed annoyance of “toss a coin”, messing a bit with the witcher, just for the fun of it. But by now, he wasn’t in the mood anymore and searched his mind for something less offending. The old “ballade of love found and lost” came to his mind, and he started to strum the first notes. “Lucky those, who found and lost, the minstrel’s song doth say. But the sadness ever goes on and on, since my loved one went away…”

  
He could relate to that one. The longer he followed Geralt around in this miserable weather searching for some cursed land, where maybe, they might find the monster, that terrorized the land around here in spring and summer, the more he felt like a lost puppy, unwanted by its present host, ill-fed and ill-treated. There was nothing to hope for. Even if there was… or ever had been… well… something… Geralt would never admit it, even less act on it. All those years, a romance here or tryst there aside (well… lots of them, if he had to be honest), he had been barking up the wrong tree…

  
“I shouldn’t have come with you”, he ended his song, and received another look and, with a rumbled “hm”, a bowl of warm food, that still did little to lighten up his mood. “Come on!”, he exclaimed, rising from his uncomfortable seat. “Tell me at least, how annoying I am… or that I should shut up, or whatever…”

  
Geralt shrugged and gave him the mere shadow of a smile, asking: “What for?” Then he leaned back against a stone and ate without any additional word. Unusually silent, Jaskier followed his example, ate and went to sleep, afterwards, tossing himself around, because his thoughts just couldn’t calm down. It didn’t help either, that Geralt didn’t seem to have any issues to sleep. His breathing was low and regular, his body uncommonly relaxed. This didn’t seem right. But before Jaskier could get suspicious, the singing started. A soft, pleasant female voice, singing a song even older than the love found and lost. A song, as old as the land itself, as familiar as his mother’s lullabies.

  
Jaskier rose abruptly and looked around, completely missing the fact that Geralt didn’t, although with his inhumanly keen senses, he should have noticed. There was something white in the darkness, moving slowly, waving like a flag in the wind or like the dress on a woman’s body, while she walked. It was a bit strange, but the song felt so warm and friendly, he just couldn’t resist to go and look, who the singer was. Carefully he left his blankets and clumsily stumbled into the darkness, following the white clothing, luring him further and further away from the camp, away from the witcher.

  
After about ten minutes tripping over stones and roots, he found a small hut, surrounded by simple wooden fences. A flimsy white cloth hung in the yard, as if left to dry, but that could not be, what he saw. It would have been too far away to notice, and it didn’t move either, so he moved on, sneaking closer, until he could peer into the open door of the little wooden building with its peat covered roof. Inside was a small hearth lighted by a flickering fire and right in front of it a woman in an impossibly white dress, her bare feet tucked under her body. Her song waved over him once more, this time less innocent and more… inventive. It made Jaskier blush and swallow involuntarily despite himself. It had such suggestive power, he felt aroused and eager, unable to resist the urge to go forward, enter the hut, meet the woman, no matter what she might look like.

\----

Morning found Jaskier in his best mood. He was well-fed and satisfied, in a simple, but comfortable bed that allowed him a good night of sleep and beside him was the flower who bloomed in this wilderness and invited him to enjoy her beauty. No ill thought crossed his mind, when he bent down to kiss his newest conquest and initiate a second or maybe third round of fun.

  
But the bubble of comfort was harshly interrupted, when something hit the front door repeatedly, shaking it within its frame with each impact. “Jaskier”, a voice called, all too loud. Oh… yes… Geralt. He had almost forgotten about him. Well… Reluctantly Jaskier stood up and put on some rudiment of clothing to open the door and tell his travel companion, he was fine and would stay for a while, so the other could just move on. He was not prepared for the frosty coldness that hit him, as soon as he opened the door, forcing his uncovered skin into goosebumps. And he was even less prepared for the bad mood, the witcher sported. “Get clothed”, he commanded preoccupied, while skeptically studying the insides of the hut. The young woman, who had kept Jaskier’s company for the night, giggled and buried herself deeper into the thick sheepskins she used as blankets, while blushing slightly. That went too far. “Nononono…”, Jaskier attempted. “Where is your politeness, Geralt…” He suggestively tried to close the door, shutting out the witcher and all his staring, at least, until he and his paramour were fully clothed. He fully intended to send him on the way then, because what else could he wish for than to stay here, until better weather came around? The witcher could really go hunting curses on his own, now, could he?

  
Before that, he would need to tell him though, so he reluctantly went through his clothes sniffing it disgustedly and sighing. These travels through wilderness left a distinct smell on them, moldy and unpleasant. The young woman understood his hesitation and jumped out her bed. She dressed quickly but let Jaskier still catch a glimpse on her inviting backside. While he dreamily recalled their last night together, albeit a little shivering, she sorted through a chest at the foot of the bed and produced some male clothes of the same white fabric, she wore. “I am a weaver and tailor. I sell those at the market. This should fit you.” It certainly did, caressing his body in much the same way, her hands had before.

  
He snuggled up into that warm, soft clothed hug, until another hard knock at the door woke him out of his daydream. “Yes, Geralt, don’t break the door”, he managed and neared the door to open it despite the shivering cold outside.

  
The witcher folded his arms before him and examined him, head to toe. “Jaskier, what do you think, you are doing? Get ready.” The low growl in his voice was emphasized by the disgruntled expression on his face. It softened just slightly, when he added: “I hope, you are warm by now.” It was nicer than Geralt’s usual self, amazing, what a good night of sleep could do.

  
But it still angered Jaskier. He was no child to be ordered around and could very well decide on his own path. “No, I…” With a dissatisfied grunt, he tried to fold his own arms, awkwardly changing forth and back until they fit together as intended. “I will just stay. You can…” Increasingly agitated he pulled one hand free again and gestured at the still unpleasantly meager surrounding. “You can just go and do your witchering.”

  
Geralt tensed, a thing, he would not have been able to sense earlier during their relationship. It surprised him he could feel it now. With strange fascination he continued to analyze the witcher’s expressions, the strange way, the corners of his mouth curled down, while his brow rose. The soft hop of his adam’s apple when he swallowed, the simple exhale, while he made up his mind.

  
“I don’t think, this is a good idea, Jaskier…” Another suspicious look scanned all surfaces, including the young woman’s body, not even nearing interest or appreciation. He did not elaborate though, as he seldom did. “Go, get your own clothes, so we can depart.”  
Now, the young woman joined their conversation, nestling herself into Jaskier’s arm and looking up to him with no small amount of adoration, before shaking her head at the witcher. “I am far from done with this… amazing specimen of manhood.”

  
She wanted to say more, a spill of words, balm on Jaskier’s wounded ego, but Geralt interrupted warily: “And what end do you have in mind?” Jaskier couldn’t see her smile, yet her laughter was so pleasing, he couldn’t help himself and bent down to nuzzle into the softness of her skin. For a moment, something scratchy got in the way, but it probably was just the hem of her shirt, which he eagerly pulled away to shower her collarbone and shoulder with kisses.

  
“None of your concern, strange unwelcome man…”, she mocked and turned to Jaskier, returning his hug and hungrily hunting for his lips. The momentary silence was only interrupted by her sucking on his lower lip and his small involuntary moans. It felt so warm and sweet and comfortable, he couldn’t get enough of it. With a shrug, he waved Geralt away, and managed to utter between continued kisses: “Oh Geralt, don’t scowl. It’s nice and I need it… and you just…” When the witcher reached out to pull him away, he freed his hand, now less relaxed and corrected his first approach on the final sentence: “You are just jealous.”

  
“Yes…”, the woman chimed in. “Go and leave us alone.”

  
With that, she shoved the door shut with her foot, lowered the latch without breaking kiss and pushed Jaskier teasingly back towards the bed. “Time for some fun, you handsome, tasty, young man.”

\-----

It had been two days, filled with a lot of the promised fun. They had only left bed to get some wood to keep the fire going and to prepare some meal. Whenever he went outside, he was marginally aware of the witcher’s continued presence in the area, although he never really saw him. And whenever he went back in, the woman was right by his side, carefully bolting and barring the door, as if she feared intruders. The whole time, two days, well, it didn’t seem that long, had passed in a happy, strangely disconnected and comfortable mood. Jaskier felt fulfilled, satisfied and relaxed, albeit nearly unable to carry a simple conversation. He was however very much able to perform between the sheets continuously to the woman’s delighted pleasure.

  
Every time he promised himself, this time would be the last time, at least for today, and each time she just smiled, and he tried once more… and was blessed with success. When he finally fell back exhausted, bathed in sweat and breathless, she smiled down to him once more, somewhat hungrily and exclaimed: “Finally! It was about time, I quickened.”

  
Blankly Jaskier frowned and watched her bending down again. “I just… can’t….” The words suffocated on their way out of his mouth, his eyes got heavy and he felt like he was too tired to move a single limb. It was not an unpleasant feeling, though a strangely disconcerting one.

  
The noise of a loud impact distracted the woman above, she looked to the side, swore, removed herself from above him. Jaskier remained, convincing himself, he was unwilling to move, despite the fact, that the blanket didn’t cover him sufficiently, which made him get uncomfortably cold.

  
A screech pierced his ears and he jerked his arms up to cover them, only to realize, he really couldn’t. More sounds arose, thumping, screaming, crashing… Strange, long and hairy limbs came into sight and disappeared again, their fast, but somehow interrupted movements startling him even more. He tried to move, his head, his arms, anything besides his eyes, but to no avail. Panicking he screamed, adding to the general turmoil, and jerked once more.

  
Geralt’s voice caught up with him. “Dammit, Jaskier, stay still.” He sounded breathless and worried, but at least, he was present. He was there, calming Jaskier like nothing else could. With elaborated breaths the bard forced himself back into motionless waiting, reducing his reaction to whimpers and moans.

  
The room eventually went silent. A sword, Geralt’s silver sword appeared above him and fell, cutting through the sheets close to Jaskiers body. It made him wince, though he tried to remain as still as possible to avoid any unnecessary cuts. Just when he couldn’t take it anymore, Geralt appeared, grabbed his shoulders and pulled, releasing him from the strange spell, that kept him in place.

  
Nervously Jaskier looked back to the bed. It only consisted of a moldy frame, a thin layer of rags and strains over strains of something like sickeningly thick cobweb strands, with a Jaskier sized hole within. The same strands also peeled of his mostly nacked body, leaving him a shivering mess.

  
He tried not to look any further, but his gaze was drawn to the front door anyways, where a black, hairy, eight-legged cadaver still steamed, the brutally thick black fangs still clicking, despite imminent death, the row of jet black eyes disrupted, some of them leaking an oily, sick-smelling substance.

  
Jaskier almost jumped at Geralt’s strong frame, hugging him in an exhaustingly intense aftermath of his recent panic. The witcher awkwardly patted his back, until his breath calmed, softly placed his calloused hand below his chin and caught his gaze with his own, yellowish predator eyes. Jaskier sighed, as the bigger man’s lips parted, thinking suddenly, how it would feel to move up, just a little, and kiss them.

  
Geralt’s look seemed somewhat reassuring and his worried expression showed, he actually did care. “Jaskier, get dressed.” Shaking his head, the bard obeyed, following the friendly tone more than the less than empathetic words. So he did care… somehow.

  
Yet, here he was again, imagining things, that would never be. Dreaming of a Geralt, never to happen. Once again, barking up the wrong tree.


End file.
